


The Sky Where Stars Meet

by taichara



Category: Final Fantasy: Brave Exvius, Saint Seiya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:14:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26508820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/pseuds/taichara
Summary: It's not just Visions, moogles, and ancient beasts to be found in the Farplane.Sometimes, it just might be a fellow traveler; sometimes, rather more than that.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4
Collections: Iddy Iddy Bang Bang! 2020





	The Sky Where Stars Meet

_I can't deal with it. I can't._

Lasswell fled to the Farplane the first chance he managed to grab, and for once the endless sea of swimming stars and shattered islands was more comforting than overwhelming. Or maybe it was just _less_ overwhelming than the raucous celebrations that were eating Zoldaad alive. Whatever it was, he just didn't care, and he couldn't tolerate it any longer, and --

_And it's too much. It's just too much. I ..._

Darklord, and hinted-at revelations, and by rights, oh, by rights Darklord should have killed him but instead ... instead ...

_Why did you heal me, you bastard._

Why, indeed. A 'why' that didn't have an answer any more than why he, himself, was -- supposedly! -- carrying a sword forged by _Flamelord_. And that didn't have an answer any more than any of the other thousand questions whirling in Lasswell's head while he picked his way slowly across the Farplane's broken stones, looking for a path to ... he wasn't sure. King Mog's palace, maybe, or one of the stony wild shrines where they'd claimed legendary weapons weeks before; even a cave or some other stony nook would be fine. He just wanted a bit of time to catch his breath.

_And why did Rain ..._

Rain. Oh, there was the real burning spike in the gut, oh yes. 

A flicker of twisting, warping light in the endless starry skies, like the casting of a net of starlight, dazzled Lasswell for a beat, and his pause to clear his vision gave that particular bugbear all the time it needed to dig its teeth in deep. By the time the shimmering had passed, his gut was roiling in echo of the storm in his head.

_I should've said nothing, so all I can do about it is just to say nothing from now on._

Hitching one shoulder, Lasswell heaved a sigh and started back on the path. There were so many things -- and curse his own weakness for spilling so much when he _knew_ Rain wouldn't, couldn't understand, and maybe it was better if he didn't -- and Lasswell didn't dare even a reminder of his more mundane (ha! as if being some kind of ... creature was _mundane_ ) needs and necessities lest he seem even more weak, even more demanding, even more ...

A second flicker of motion brought him suddenly up short. That was no farplanar warp or shimmering false star out of the corner of his eye, oh no; that was the glint of golden metal. Instantly Lasswell stopped in his tracks, hearing the softest rustle of fabric even as he whirled, hand falling instinctively to grasp Purple Lightning's hilt.

"I apologize. I hadn't ... hadn't expected to find someone else here. It's never happened before; I have never seen someone here of their own accord before. I am sorry."

Lasswell blinked. The words -- soft, low, a deep pained murmur -- reached his ears (his thoughts?) even before his attention locked onto the source, and now he felt doubly the fool. And yet. And yet.

He relaxed his grip on his blade, but did not give it up.

"Accepted. However, who _are_ you, and what do you have to do with the Farplane?"

Who indeed, because what an apparition was pacing cautiously toward him. Golden, yes; ropes of heavy golden beads broken up by unknown stones in red and green, and heavy golden borders embroidered on the white velvet robes that hung in heavy, sweeping folds. And the palest gold, a gold like the moon, cascaded in equally heavy coiling waves past the man's hips and half-hid blue, blue eyes. Eyes that gazed back with concern, brows oh so slightly crimped, though Lasswell had never in his life seen this man before. He knew he hadn't, because if he had --

_I'd remember him. Oh, how I'd remember this._

He was not, mind you, so distracted that he couldn't note how the stranger moved like a warrior born, for all his slow and careful gestures, or that there was mass beneath those snowy robes --

\-- and he was so distracted that he nearly stumbled when his questions were actually answered.

"I am ..."

The tiniest of pauses, the slightest deepening of the crimp in those pale brows.

"I am Saga. I come from a place known as the Sanctuary, which I suspect will have no meaning for you, and that is no insult, I assure you. As for what I have to do with _this_ place ..."

A faintly pained and wistful little smile flickered briefly on Saga's lips.

"I learned to come here, after a time, to find a little bit of peace. My own 'sanctuary', if you wish. I truly did not expect to find another human being here.

"If I may ask: what about yourself, young swordsman? You seem distraught ..?"

-*-

Well now, that was certainly a look, wasn't it?

_Did I truly ask something that unexpected?_

Saga chided himself the instant he had the thought; of course he did. No one ever wants to be put on the spot like that, least of all brash young warriors of any kind. 

Though, perhaps, 'brash' was not at all the word to use here.

_'Driven', perhaps, or 'haunted', even. He has the look to him of someone used to hiding his thoughts behind some outward veneer, and he's recently lost that comforting mask ..._

_... Well. That would certainly be something I can understand._

Patience; patience. There was all the time in this not-world between dimensions for Saga to wait while the swordsman -- a member of some military order, perhaps; those ornaments did look like badges of some kind, and that jacket a type of uniform -- shook off his floundering surprise and gathered his wits, unconsciously raking a hand through his mane of black hair while he did so. To the man's credit, it did not take long before the ice-blue eyes reflected a fragile sort of calm, and he met Saga's gaze squarely.

"Lasswell, of the Knights of Grandshelt."

Ah, so he _was_ of another military order.

"I came here ..."

A pause, Lasswell closing his eyes for the briefest of moments; Saga felt a flickering stab of pain and guilt radiate from the knight and winced inwardly. Oh, these were familiar emotions in so many ways, weren't they.

"... I came here because I needed time. I needed -- to get some space from a situation, and an individual, causing difficulty through no fault of their own. And, if I might be bold, I didn't expect to see anyone else here either except maybe moogles."

Saga blinked. Moogles? What were -- no, wait. He tilted his head slightly, Lasswell watching his every move, still cautious.

"Would 'moogles' be the little white-furred creatures that flutter around that decrepit castle, by any chance?"

Well that was _another_ interesting expression! It took effort, but Saga refrained from laughing at the look of utter frustrated resignation on Lasswell's face --

"They are. Don't let them con you into their strange little fetch quests, either."

"So noted, and thank you. But, Lasswell of Grandshelt -- and I know this is prying of me -- are you certain that you're well ...?"

\-- oh, he did not need to see someone else lose their life --

The pale eyes shadowed, Lasswell drawing in on himself and murmuring denials, and Saga felt a pang. No, this wasn't right. Tormenting a stranger wasn't right, no matter his own reason; and he should not have been prying, but ...

But, oh, that _look_.

_If, just once, I could ..._

He reached out a hand, half-offering, half-imploring, without a second thought.

"If there is anything that I can offer to ease this --"

He'd have to be careful, so careful, but what could it hurt so long as he was circumspect? No one would know, could _possibly_ know, except the two of them. There was no one else in this nowhere-place of dimensions except for furry little 'moogles', after all.

_He's still minding his blade; perhaps a different sort of release from care ..._

"-- Or, failing that, perhaps a bit of sparring? I'm afraid I'm not trained in physical weaponry, but I do know unarmed combat. And I would be pleased to do so, if it might help work off a little of your pain."

What came next, Saga expected, prepared for, and was not disappointed. After starting with surprise Lasswell moved back a pace, as if taking his measure; cycled through an entire series of expressions, from doubt to concern to wariness and back to doubt again before settling on a mix of all three; and then lifted his own hand in a gesture that could be denial, could be simply a call for hesitation.

Saga guessed it was the second, and was once again not disappointed.

_You're far more easy to read than you realize, Lasswell._

"You're saying that you'd like to spar, my sword against empty hands?"

Oh he could almost taste the dubiousness left hanging in the air, but that was also part of his plan. If Lasswell was distracted by his proposal, then he was free to not be caught up in his worries, if only for a little -- and Saga did not deny for one moment the selfish elements threading through his altruism. 

_I would also like to forget, for just a little while ..._

"I am, and I am entirely capable, I assure you. I will even make certain not to break or damage your blade."

The crooked smile that ghosted into place on Lasswell's lips was oddly pleasing, or so Saga thought; so he pressed onward. Yes, Lasswell, perhaps that _was_ a bit of a spur; now, what will you do?

He withdrew his hand to settle in a loosely ready stance, robes swaying gently in the otherworld's ghostly winds, and offered a little smile of his own.

"Come! I'll show you exactly what I mean!"

-*-

Lasswell stared. He couldn't help but stare. Was the man mad?

... No, he clearly was not. Whatever the truth -- whatever this Saga was capable of -- he did seem entirely in possession of his faculties at least. Perhaps he planned to use some kind of magic? It wasn't impossible, after all, and there were certainly stranger entities out there in the world then a man who thought he could fist-fight a sword. 

_I'll just have to be careful, and strike only with Purple Lightning's flat. No spells and no frost techs unless Saga uses magic first. Yes, that ought to do it._

_... Oh, admit it, self: you're just hoping for a chance against hope to prove yourself._

Maybe he was; but right that moment, Lasswell didn't much care, not with even a slim strange chance like this one dangling invitingly in front of his face. He drew Purple Lightning in one fluid motion, saluted Saga with the blade -- prompting a rumbling chuckle of appreciation and a slight bow from the taller man -- and stepped smoothly into a waiting stance that, without missing a beat, flowed into a whirl of graceful blade-arcs. 

A whirl that barely started when Saga surged up to meet his strikes, one-one-one-two: a sidestep, a parry -- a _parry!_ with his open palm! -- dropping a shoulder to avoid another, a flurry of more parrying strikes, palm and forearm and back of hand, before swooping in close to tag Lasswell with a prod in the ribs, a knee lifted to plant pressure in the ligaments of his own knee before twisting away again out of range of Lasswell's sword.

Tagged. Tagged, like a child playing games with other children in some garden. Lasswell saluted again, half-mockingly this time, acknowledging his own foolish doubts, and closed the distance between them; because whoever or whatever Saga was, he _did_ know how to fight, and was clearly willing to meet him on whatever playing field Lasswell had in mind.

It was freeing in a way Lasswell hadn't felt in a very long time.

Tripling his efforts, he lunged after Saga, tagging a rippling fold of robe and prompting a bark of low rolling laughter before a tap between his shoulders made him stagger and miss a step. 

_Oh no, it's not going to be _that_ easy!_

Nearly wasn't good enough. Not even close to good enough. Recovering lost momentum, Lasswell gathered himself, blade low, and brought Purple Lightning up in a broad gleaming arc of steel and aurora-blue that would lay low anyone caught by the sword's razored edge.

Saga caught the tip of the blade in a one-handed grip a breath away from his throat, his little smile never wavering.

Lasswell blinked, amazed, but pleased with himself nonetheless --

A few strands of pale gold hair drifted on the breeze. 

A thin wash of crimson trickled down Purple Lightning's blade.

Crimson ...

Lasswell swallowed convulsively, and the world shifted sideways.

-*-

_!!!_

"Lasswell --"

All was one smooth motion: a cry, casting the gleaming relic sword aside to clatter across the stones, catching the suddenly-waxen slumping form of his impromptu sparring partner before Lasswell split his skull open on those selfsame stones, and a flicker of horror that maybe he did this, that that hateful splinter inside him had reached out unseen and struck Lasswell down in a fit of asserting his dominance. But no. His shadow was, as always in this otherworldly place, oddly silent. So, then?

"Lasswell?"

_:Lasswell, do you hear me like this?:_

Daring, to touch a stranger's mind; but it was hardly as if he were back in the wide world at large where few these days understood the skills of the Saints, and Saga deemed it worth the risk --

_-How ... mind reading?-_

Lasswell's response was disoriented and tinged with the lingering ache of recent injury, but also with guilt, with shame -- and with a hunger that took Saga by surprise, a deep-in-the-marrow need that he'd given not a hint of. Not that Lasswell _seemed_ to be from the underworld. Certainly he was alive enough, forcing himself to breathe deeply and slowly while he burned with embarrassment over being cradled in Saga's arms. 

But stranger things _had_ happened, as Saga knew all too well, and there were always the _others_ from legendary history.

_And he comes from another world altogether, where it might be different. Not that it matters; he's hurting now._

Attention back to responding to Lasswell's halting question, now, if you please --

_:Yes. Only your surface thoughts, nothing more, I swear it on my honour. Lasswell, you should have told me you've been recently injured; I would have kept it in mind ... and also seen you offered proper hospitality first. If I can remedy that oversight now?:_

_-I ...!!-_

Jerking himself upright, Lasswell flailed to escape and Saga let him go. The swordsman hardly got far; staggering to his feet, he moved away a few steps before sinking to one knee as if all the vitality was drained from him. Not an 'illusion' or a falsehood, so much as perhaps a symptom of the conflict Saga was certain roiled inside him right that moment; one that he himself knew all too well. 

_Some things, we all keep hidden deep inside ourselves ..._

So he also knew to wait, climbing slowly to his own feet and brushing down his robes, and being careful not to close too much distance and box Lasswell in. No good would come of pressing the matter too closely, too quickly.

Still ...

"Lasswell, I do offer freely. I assure you, no harm would come to me by it. We -- of Sanctuary, this is our calling, to protect, to offer what we can. And ..."

A bitter, hopeless pang washed through him, but Saga bit it down and banished it. Now was not the time for self-pity.

"And not all battles are fought with swords or fists, but that does not make them irrelevant or unneeded. I would fight this one for you now, if you would do me that honour.

"I ... cannot and would not replace your brother. I would never dare to try. But if I can ease your pain, if only for a little, I would call that a victory."

Long painful moments trickled by, and Saga worried that he'd pushed too much in the end, after all, but finally Lasswell heaved a pained little laugh and looked back over his shoulder, pushing his hair out of the way with a trembling hand that betrayed his nerves. There was still guilt in his face, but also a strange sort of relief.

"It's not something I should ask you to do for me."

Saga closed a bit of the distance, shaking his head.

"Fortunate for the both of us, then, that you've done no such thing, wouldn't you agree? I will follow your lead in this, of course."

Somewhat unexpectedly Lasswell ducked his head and fumbled with one of his long coat's many pockets, muttering that if Saga really planned to go through with this, he needed a knife and didn't look like he'd be carrying anything of the sort (and something else, involving a 'Lid', whatever or whoever that may have been). Nonplussed, Saga shook his head again.

"It might be convenient, but hardly necessary. Please, trust me. And a touch of privacy might also be in our best interests, one of the small grottoes nearby, perhaps? On the off-chance one of those little moogles feels like being curious.

"When you feel assured of yourself, let us go?"

-*-

Everything was a whirlwind. A whirlwind of conflicting, roiling emotions and a mix of guilty horror and hungry anticipation that made Lasswell's cheeks keep right on burning long after he'd gathered himself up and led the way towards one of Saga's 'grottoes'. But everything about the other man suggested nothing but honest intentions -- and his head fairly swam with anticipation, even through the guilt. That brief moment, when Saga shed that merest sheen of blood ... He'd never felt that before, never caught that scent-or-whatever-it-was before. Saga was something different.

_I'm as weak now as I was fighting the Emperor and the Veritas, but at least here no one will see me be weak except a stranger and maybe a moogle._

_If being weak now means I'm not preying on Rain, that's even better._

Purple Lightning felt heavy in its harness. He'd retrieved the sword before they picked their way across the stony plains -- brushing aside Saga's quiet apologies for its abrupt dismissal -- and it'd taken no damage. Honestly, he'd have been surprised if it did, but musing on the lack of even scratches made for a good distraction from what was looming in the very near future.

Then, just inside the mouth of a small, dry cavelet, Saga seated himself on a bench-like, stony outcropping with the grace of one lowering himself onto a throne of state, smoothed his robes, met Lasswell's eyes, and held out his hand once again. Lasswell's breath hitched, then nearly stopped when Saga fixed him with a look that felt like a blade through his own heart.

"If you've changed your mind, Lasswell, I understand --"

Oh, no. No, not at all. Not with those eyes and that _look_ and the lingering tingle of their oh-so-brief match still whispering exhausted exhilaration in his veins. 

Not when he wanted ...

He shook his head, and Saga's answering murmur was painfully soft.

"Then, when you're ready -- when you wish -- I will be ready."

And the man waited, patiently, like a statue in gold and ivory. Lasswell felt very much like he was drowning; focused his attention onto unbuckling Purple Lightning's sheath and belts and setting it aside, then after a moment doing the same for his coat. It was only going to get in the way, and the metal fittings would surely snag on Saga's velvets. That was what he murmured to himself, in any case.

_If he's sacrificing himself for me, the least I can do is show some kind of courtesy for his gift._

Of course his preparations took hardly more than minutes, even if he did fight the gnawing in his veins to try to buy himself time to think, and in no time at all he turned his attention back to Saga, who had pulled the beaded ornaments from around his neck and set them aside ...

... Who nodded once, pushed his hair behind his shoulders and one heavy velvet sleeve back nearly to his shoulder -- revealing the muscle Lasswell knew had to be there -- and with a single slash of his other hand laid his arm open and bleeding.

Lasswell stared, frozen. The gnawing roared in his ears now but shock held him like a spell.

_He --!!_

"This _is_ the answer, isn't it?"

Soft rumble of concern; Saga, holding his bleeding arm out, crimson pooling in his hand, leaving tiny blood-flowers scattered across the snowy folds of his robes. Unflinching, unbothered, not a sign of fear or even pain in his face.

"Lasswell?"

... And, what sanguine promises coiled through all his senses now ...

With a whisper of gratitude Lasswell crossed the small space of the cavelet and fell to his knees before his unexpected saviour, reaching for the bloody blessing that Saga offered like the starving man that he was; and Saga cradled Lasswell to his lap with his hale hand once hungry lips battened onto his self-inflicted wound, murmuring quiet encouragements, slowly stroking Lasswell's hair while he drank greedily. 

As if from a distance, through the warm euphoric haze spreading through him, Lasswell heard the soft whisper in his mind.

_:Whatever you need, I will offer. It's been so long ...:_

_:I hope we have the chance to meet in this world again. And should we be so blessed, I will do the same again. I swear this to you.:_

Careful fingers, threading through his hair ...

_:Drink, and rest a little, if you like. I have time. It will be alright.:_

-*-

And it _was_ 'alright', more so than Lasswell had ever expected it to be; a respite explained away as needing time for himself, having fled to the Farplane to get it, and no one felt the need to question it much. Not even Sakura, though she gave him long, long looks as he continued the on-again, off-again habit during their mad quest and after.

It was true that it felt odd to him that Saga seemed to know -- somehow -- when he came to the Farplane alone. He'd asked about that, once; Saga looked almost wistful for a moment (that _look_ that stabbed so deeply) and shook his head. He could feel Lasswell's presence because he'd touched his mind, he said; he felt Lasswell's travelling to the Farplane because he himself made great use of it, and came there under his own power, and the sense of 'Lasswell' was an imprint now. Lasswell still felt odd about it now, but -- having seen Saga tear the very stuff of the Farplane's sky asunder to take his leave -- long since decided that there were just some magics he'd never really understand, like Sakura's mindscape-memory-traveling. Besides, it wasn't important.

What was important, today, right now, was the conversation slowly unspooling while he rested, eyes half-lidded, his head in Saga's lap, Saga's hand stroking his hair.

"... so Master Akstar is teaching me the ultimate Mirror, assuming I can master myself enough to execute it properly, but I can't see how or why he insists that I have to kill off all emotion in order to do it. It feels -- backwards. Unintuitive? My strength comes from ..."

He felt the prickle of a flush creeping into his cheeks, then even more so when he realized he was embarrassed by _this_ of all things. Above his head, Saga chuckled.

"I've told you I come from a holy order, haven't I? What you're describing sounds a good deal like a Saint's apprenticeship. If starting rather later than a Saint. That said --"

And here Saga sounded distinctly rueful --

"-- That said, let me go on record as disagreeing with your master in the exact same way that I disagree with one of our Saints who maintains the same stance. It cannot be done without killing off what makes you, _you_ , in the process."

A little snort.

"Strive to learn what Akstar can teach you, but don't listen to his crowing about your failures. You are already far more than that. I see it in you. You can learn to move worlds as readily as I can, in your own way; it is only a matter of the time and the will, and I know you have the will.

"I'll go so far as to say that I would not be surprised if your Master Akstar was also deluding himself into thinking he's 'killed off' his _own_ emotions, because the one who protests the loudest is usually the one with the most to hide."

Well, that was one way of looking at it, wasn't it; Saga certainly _sounded_ convincing -- or was it convinced? -- enough, at least. Lasswell ruminated over the suggestion that Akstar was putting on a show about his lessons (the same way he did for everything else, if Lasswell let himself be honest about his master) for a good long time, while the conversation shifted to other things; and he was still mulling the possibilities when Saga sighed.

"Lasswell? Before we go our separate ways, this time, I have to tell you; the War is approaching quickly."

The 'War'. Every time Saga mentioned it -- which was not often -- it was reluctantly, and with a tone that left Lasswell nearly able to taste the man's dread in the air afterwards. But this time felt different, and Lasswell found himself suddenly reluctant to ask the questions he'd wondered over more than once. A small questioning sound escaped him, but that was all he dared. 

Saga's hand stilled for a beat; he sighed, and then resumed the slow strokes, but Lasswell could feel the tiny shift of tension.

"Depending on ... what happens in the near future, I may not be able to return for some time. It's possible I will not manage it at all ..."

A tiny touch, pained, but with unfathomable gentleness, in his mind.

"... And it is equally possible that I may not survive. There's an argument to be made that that may be the price that needs paid, in this War; my life and those of many others. It's not ... it's not what it should be, this War. But it must happen. It _must_.

"But I could never forgive myself if I left you without any forewarning, feeble as it is."

They lingered for some time, and Lasswell would have dragged it out even longer if only he could.

-*-

_You must be here. I can ..._

Under the Farplane's endless night sky, Saga roamed swiftly, pained and searching.

_I might be a shadow of myself but I can still feel where you shifted the dimension's barrier to come here._

How he'd slipped away to begin with, he didn't dare guess. Was he no longer being watched? Unlikely. So this was something he was being _permitted_. 

A test? Of what? Loyalty? To whom? 

His fellows, perhaps. No fear of that; Saga would face damnation all over again before abandoning them. 

No, this was not a betrayal; he would return soon enough.

_Lasswell ..._

He would return soon enough, even if his quest, this near-final quest, came up empty in the end.

Saga paused, scanned the horizon; paused to glance towards the palace, so far away. No, no. If Lasswell were here in the otherworld -- if he'd lingered at all -- he'd still be waiting where they'd now met so many times.

_Please ..._

-*-

_No sign of him again._

It was a year, now. A year of slipping away from the weight of Hess's throne every once in a while to try and find his balance, and while the occasional small and adventurous antics with Rain and Fina took the edge off his first unsteady steps towards ruling, Lasswell in all that year's time had not seen Saga. Not for lack of trying, either, but not once on all those furtive Farplane visits did he so much as glimpse a flicker of pale golden hair. And it wasn't that he was hungry, either -- that was long settled -- not the way he'd been when they'd met; it was all the other things. It was what _they_ had. It was a whole year since, and so many things had happened.

_There's so much I want to say! About -- about Master, and the Emperor, and ... and about finding out where I come from, and why I'm the way I am, and. And._

_And how you were right, after all, Saga, and I should've believed you._

Perhaps it was time to give up. Perhaps that War of his ...

_I don't want to think about it._

At 'their' cavelet's mouth, Lasswell sighed, leaning heavily against the rough dark stone, and scrubbed at eyes that threatened to do more than sting at the thought. It wasn't as if he hadn't been warned, after all -- but it still hurt to consider. But, after a year, what else could it be except for the War?

A strange chiming of crystalline alloy whispered through the air suddenly, but before he could lower his hand -- 

"Lasswell?"

_!_

Saga? _Was_ it Saga? Yes -- he was striding down the last dip in the scratchy trail, his hair fluttering behind him -- Saga, pale and grim, and the snowy white robes trimmed in gold were gone. In their place was a fearsome carapace that glittered blackly in the Farplane's odd night-light, hiding all but Saga's throat and face behind a shell that reminded Lasswell of the Veritas' armours. Saga's hair coiled and caught on the black armour's high collar-plates and trailed down the articulations of his spine, trembling pale gold rivers against black diamond.

But that armour was a momentary distraction. Joyfully, Lasswell moved to meet Saga only to be brought up short by a gauntleted hand lifted in warning before he came in arm's reach.

"Lasswell, please. Please, wait. I am ..."

Then he saw it. The red-rimmed midnight eyes. The deathly -- yes, deathly -- pallor, lips oh so faintly blue. Saga may stand before him, but -- but --

But that sigh, that regretful, infinitely sorrowful gaze -- whatever he'd become, Saga still --

"You see it, don't you. You know what I've become. Tell me you do, Lasswell, please."

Oh, he did. The world swam around him but Lasswell fought it off; this was no time for outbursts, not even faced with this. Not even then. He drew a long, slow breath, and nodded.

"You were lost in that War of yours."

Saga closed his eyes, tilted his face away ever so slightly.

"I was. It _was_ the only outcome that could end that War, in the end, though I was not the only one, far from it. It's ... 

"Until now, I was bound, but it seems I've found a little time before the final end. And -- I could not leave you to never know what happened, where I was, to come back here searching. I ..."

Lasswell shook his head, closed the gap, reached out to touch one pale, cold cheek.

"Thank you. More than ever, thank you. Coming here, now, like this -- I can't imagine it. You're standing right here and I can barely imagine it."

But he did, just like he knew exactly what he wanted to do about it; the only thing, the _right_ thing. 

Lowering his hand, Lasswell pulled the black-iron coronet -- the only mark of his kingship he wore -- from his head and considered its spurs for a long moment, as Saga regarded him with silent, questioning eyes. 

Then he smiled, and drew the black barbs across his palm. Blood welled like blossoms of crimson and Saga bit back a cry --

Lasswell held his bloodied hand out like a chalice.

"It's my turn, now, to comfort you."

A touch, familiar but turned strange, in his mind --

_:Always:_

Cold black adamant closed feather-light around his wrist; cold lips brushed his palm, a glimmer of cold tears splashing his skin, as Saga bowed his head to drink.


End file.
